


Blame It On Bad Luck

by Lissadiane



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Soulmate AU, Winterhawk Reverse Big Bang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-04
Updated: 2019-08-04
Packaged: 2020-07-30 16:40:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20100319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lissadiane/pseuds/Lissadiane
Summary: People like to tell Clint he’ll find his soulmate someday. Just because his mark looks like it’s crumbling, that it’s a mess with no clearly defined edges, that no one can even tell what it’s supposed to say, that doesn’t mean he’s doomed to be alone forever. Clint can remember when it was clearer, when he was younger, so he knows what it’s supposed to say, and when others ask, he just... doesn’t answer. Shrugs their concerned optimism off with a rueful grin, like he isn’t sure he believes them, like he’s got self-esteem issues, like a broken soulmark is his biggest concern.Like he hasn’t met his soulmate half a dozen times and lost him just as often.





	Blame It On Bad Luck

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [[FANART] blame it on bad luck](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20100151) by [pietray](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pietray/pseuds/pietray). 

> Thank you so so much to [ quicksillver](https://quicksillver.tumblr.com/) for your beautiful, beautiful art ( [LOCATED HERE!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20100151)) and I hope my fic does it justice, and to the mods of the Winterhawk Reverse Bang! And everyone who helped me finish this story.

“I knew a guy who had a mark like that once,” Steve says, and Clint slaps a hand over his mark and feels cold pinpricks race up and down his skin. 

He doesn’t like other people mentioning his soulmark. He doesn’t like to talk about it. He doesn’t like to even remember that it’s there.

It’s a mess of a mark and he’s got a mess of a life and no time for soulmates or broken, damaged marks, and quite frankly, it’s rude to comment or to stare.

He turns to Steve to tell him so, and Natasha hisses at him because she’s trying to stitch up his shoulder, which is why he took off his shirt to begin with.

Before he can snap at Steve, though, he notices how haunted Steve looks, eyes dark and wistful and staring at nothing, and Clint just. Lets it go.

He knows what looks like that mean, and they mean Steve’s not here any longer. He’s lost to thoughts of his life before and Clint doesn’t want to bring him back to this shit show for a scolding.

“Okay?” Nat asks, quiet. The needle keeps tugging at his skin, relentless.

“Yeah, of course,” he says, fingers lingering on the mark, thumb dragging over the broken lines. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

She looks at him like she knows more than he wants her to, but what the fuck else is new?

*

People like to tell Clint he’ll find his soulmate someday. Just because his mark looks like it’s crumbling, that it’s a mess with no clearly defined edges, that no one can even tell what it’s supposed to say, that doesn’t mean he’s doomed to be alone forever. Clint can remember when it was clearer, when he was younger, so he knows what it’s supposed to say, and when others ask, he just... doesn’t answer. Shrugs their concerned optimism off with a rueful grin, like he isn’t sure he believes them, like he’s got self-esteem issues, like a broken soulmark is his biggest concern.

Like he hasn’t met his soulmate half a dozen times and lost him just as often.

Most people are born with a mark, a stark, clearly defined bit of words that their soulmate carries the reply to. It’s dark and vibrant and easily identified and it does not change, not until they meet the one with the matching mark, and then both marks fade away.

Clint’s had faded and come back and faded away again, it’s no wonder it’s a mess. A scribble. A broken bit of ink.

And it doesn’t matter. He’s good. He’s fine. He doesn’t need a soulmate and he’s better off without one, and no one gets to know the intimate and messy details.

And sometimes, late at night, when he wakes up screaming from nightmares that aren’t his, he feels a tentative presence in his mind, small and bewildered and young.

“I know you,” that presence asks, soft, unsure and broken. “I know you.”

“Yeah,” Clint always answers, warm and whole, because it’s all he can do. “You know me.”

It always rings false, like a lie, and everyone knows soulmates can’t lie to each other, but he says it anyway, waiting until that presence fades away again before he turns over and presses his face to his pillow and screams until his voice gives out.

*

The first time Clint meets his soulmate, he’s 24 and young and confident, brashly arrogant about his aim, tagging along with The Black Widow all around the world as they take out assholes for money.

He’s always idolized Carmen Sandiego and now he feels like her -- or at least, her awkward, clumsy, endearing sidekick. Nat’s always been the femme fatale type and he doesn’t begrudge her that.

They’re in Rovinj, a quaint seaside town in Croatia, laying low and waiting for the international attention to ease up after their last mission before they take on another one, spending their days on the beach or in the cafes, eating seafood and sipping cappuccinos. Clint’s sunburned and his hair is brightened from the sun and he feels carefree and is steadily working his way through all the pretty men and women who like to look at him while he wanders through the seaside market, picking out produce. 

It’s the middle of the goddamn afternoon and even Clint, who likes to keep his soulmark hidden, has stripped off his shirt beneath the pounding midday sun.

So the guy standing in the town square in a long-sleeved shirt, jeans, and a baseball cap, he’s instantly worthy of suspicion. The fact that Clint can clearly tell he’s armed to the teeth doesn’t help, with a metal arm too. He’s clearly dangerous the way Nat is dangerous, and the town square is full of children splashing in the fountain, civilians wandering the market squares. Clint might be an international fugitive and an assassin as well, but even he draws the line at starting anything in the middle of such a perfect summer day, with so many innocent people around to get in the line of fire.

But there’s also the way he looks a little lost, something soft and unsure in the way he’s holding himself, in the line of his frankly beautiful jaw, that makes Clint think maybe -- maybe -- the super dangerous dude with too many weapons to count and just about the prettiest face Clint’s ever seen -- maybe he’s just lost.

So Clint wanders over, licking the double scoop tiger stripe ice cream he just bought, and offers the guy a sunny, sweet smile.

Before he can say anything, the guy’s pretty gray eyes take him in, from the tips of his sun-bleached hair to his toes, lingering for a moment on the messy inky mark on his side. And then the guy says, voice gravelly and rough, “I know you.”

“Yeah,” Clint says, automatic, because if the guy thinks they’re friends, removing him from this town square and getting him somewhere with less collateral damage, might be easier. He holds out his hand and says, “You know me.”

It’s only then, as the guy hesitates a moment before reaching out with his bare hand, the one not made of metal, that the words they’ve said -- the words the guy has said -- sink in, and he realizes.

Those are the words the shattered pieces of his mark spell out, if he connects them like a connect-the-dot puzzle, like a constellation. 

I know you. 

And then the guy’s hand is in his and it’s an instant electrical pulse, a sudden spike of awareness, an echo of something in his mind, a place that was empty but is now filled to the brim with so many feelings, so much anger and confusion and insecurity, and there, right at the centre of it, a tiny, secret beam of light that feels like hope.

“Oh,” Clint says, stunned, holding hands with a strange guy wearing too many clothes.

The mark on his side, all the broken pieces of it, fades away with each inhale, until it’s just a shadow of what it used to be.

And Clint can’t see if there’s a similar mess of a mark on this guy anywhere, but his fingers itch to reach out and look for it.

“I’m Clint,” Clint tells him, after a few seconds of staring at each other with wide eyes, barely breathing.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “I’m…” He trails off.

And Clint doesn’t know his name, sure, but he knows him, all of him, every single molecule that makes up his body -- even the bits that are made of metal. He feels like he’s always known him. Like he’s crawled inside him and learned every part of him from the inside out. 

They’re breathing the same. Are their hearts beating the same? Clint doesn’t know but he wants to get close enough to find out.

And then someone fires a gun into the crowd of children and families and chaos erupts. There’s screaming and crying and running and Clint tries to hold on to the guy’s hand but it’s a lost cause, because someone fires another shot -- a dart -- into the guy’s neck and then there’s sleeping gas and Clint is stumbling into it and Natasha’s gonna be so disappointed in him.

And then he’s out.

The guy is gone when he wakes up, and Natasha’s there, lecturing him and calling him every Russian curse word under the sun.

And later that night, he asks her questions about a man with a metal arm and she tells him a ghost story about the Winter Soldier.

The next day, there is a flash of brutal pain and sharp, sharp cold, and the presence in the back of his mind blinks out like a light.

And that should be the end, but it’s not.

*

Twenty-seven and older but definitely not wiser. His knees ache sometimes, and he feels older than he should feel, considering he’s not even thirty yet.

He thinks his soulmate died, and for a year or two, it had haunted him. He’d tried to find out anything he could about the fate of the Winter Soldier. He’d even confessed to Natasha, after she’d gotten suspicious about his sudden obsession with what had previously been little more than an urban legend.

But even together, they hadn’t found a trace of him or what had befallen him after that day in the town square.

He was gone and Clint’s mark was vibrant and dark again, still as messy, as broken, as before, as if he’d never activated.

After they’d run out of their admittedly few leads, after Nat had given up, Clint had cried for three days, drinking whiskey between bouts of tears, and then he’d just packed up his feelings in a carefully constructed part of his mind and gotten over it as best he could.

It helps, in a strange way, that he’d always sort of thought the fact that his mark was barely legible and clearly broken meant he was broken too, that he wasn’t meant to find his soulmate.

So even a few minutes of the blindingly bright realisation that somehow, he’d done it, he’d stumbled upon the one person in the whole world who was made to love him more than anybody else -- that is more than he ever thought he’d get.

Clint has done his share of fucking around. Hell, he was a kid in the circus who thought he wasn’t gonna live to be twenty, never mind long enough to meet his goddamn soulmate, so why shouldn’t he fuck around with the other kids who were up for some bad decisions and blowjobs behind the big top?

Clint’s so used to fighting for every scrap of something that he gets, and three minutes of staring into his soulmate’s eyes, that was a scrap, and it’s one he intends to hold close and careful to his chest.

But he’s not stupid enough to think he deserves any more than that.

And then, three years after the Winter Soldier touched his hand and activated him, while standing lost and alone in a town square -- three years after the Winter Soldier had been taken by armed terrorists and executed --

Clint rounds a bend in a warren of underground tunnels, stolen briefcase tucked under one arm, and he runs right into his soulmate.

They crash together, an unavoidable collision course, and Clint stumbles back and catches his balance and opens his mouth to tell Natasha he’s got company. Before he can say a word, he looks up at the Hydra agent he slammed into and the entire world shifts, tilts off its axis, and he can’t breathe.

He knows that face -- he still sometimes dreams about that face.

And then the Winter Soldier slams him against the wall, metal hand cracking a few of his ribs as he’s pinned there, other hand coming up and wrapping around his throat, cutting off his air supply.

It’s that same feeling, that skin-to-skin sensation, like lightning pulsing through him, making his heart race. It would take away his breath if the Winter Soldier hadn’t already done that, and Clint is too stunned to even struggle.

“I know you,” the Winter Soldier says, voice grating like he hadn’t spoken in a long, long time. Or like he’d been screaming.

“Yeah,” Clint pants, tugging at his hand weakly. “You know me.”

The Winter Soldier lets go like he’s been shoved, stumbling back and staring at Clint with wide, haunted eyes. “Who are you?”

“I’m Clint,” he tells him, pressing a hand to his burning throat. “I’m your -- you’re my. We met before.”

The Winter Soldier shakes his head, just on the edge of wildness. “We didn’t,” he says.

Clint shoves away from the wall, briefcase of intel at his feet, forgotten. “You don’t remember? Three years ago, in Rovinj. I thought -- I thought you were dead.” His voice cracks.

The Soldier’s face looks shuttered and so distant. “I wasn’t dead,” he says, voice drifting, like he’s disassociating. “I was sleeping.”

“For three years?”

The Soldier blinks and focuses, frowning at Clint, who wonders, again, where his mark is and if it’s as broken, as illegible as Clint’s.

“Barton,” Natasha snaps over the comms. “Report.”

“I have to go,” Clint says, because he can hear pounding footsteps coming closer. “Come with me.”

“Negative,” says the Soldier. He reaches out with his metal hand, and it lands heavily on Clint’s shoulder, effectively pinning him in place, making his cracked ribs twinge. He can barely breathe as it is. “I know you. Stay. I -- I _remember_ you. Clint.”

“You do?” Clint looks down the hall, desperate. If the other Hydra operatives find him, he doubts they’re going to care that he’s the Winter Soldier’s soulmate.

“You’re. You’re mine,” The Soldier says, and he sounds uncertain, begrudgingly hopeful. “Clint.”

“Yeah,” Clint says, and he wants to drag the Soldier away with him, but he knows that the hand on his shoulder could crush his collarbone easily and he doesn’t want to do anything to startle him. “You didn’t tell me your name.”

“Asset,” the Winter Soldier says.

Clint closes his eyes and swears a little and says, “That’s not a name. Come with me and we’ll figure one out for you, we’ll--”

“No,” snarls the Soldier.

And then there’s a gunshot at point blank range, a bullet slamming into the Soldier’s side, sending him swinging off balance.

It’s Natasha, jerking her head towards the exit even as Clint’s mouth hangs open and the Soldier crumples to the ground.

“He’ll heal,” she snaps. “We’ve gotta go. We can come back for him later, Clint, when you’re not holding confiscated intel. Okay?”

“Help me drag him,” he pleads. “I can’t -- I can’t just leave him.”

The Soldier snarls, pulling out a knife, and Natasha is done with patience, snatching up the briefcase and running. Clint has no choice but to follow.

“Stay,” the Soldier growls, and Clint hesitates, but Natasha just grabs his arm and hauls him out the door.

“He’s alive,” Clint says, shivering with shock and adrenaline, as Natasha hisses at him and wraps a sling around his arm to hold his ribs still. “Nat. Nat, he’s alive.”

He can still feel the Soldier, a presence in his mind that had been gone for so long.

“Yes,” she says, terse. “And he broke your ribs.”

“He wanted me to _stay_ with him,” Clint tells her. His eyes feel wide and shiny with stars.

Natasha grabs his chin firmly, her fingers digging into his cheeks, and she says, “In a Hydra stronghold, Clint. You’d have been killed if you stayed with him.”

“Well, yeah. I know. I just --”

“Swallow these pills. They’ll take the edge off the pain. We’ve got to drive through the night if we want to make it to the rendezvous point and if we miss the meeting, we won’t get another chance.”

Clint swallows obediently and then lets her bully him into the back seat of their stolen car, stretching out as best he can while she drives into the darkness. They’re the good pills, making everything hazy, and he barely feels his broken ribs as he drifts, poking and prodding at that place in his mind that doesn’t belong to him.

The Winter Soldier is cold and distant but there, a sharp mess of confusion, and Clint wants to wrap him up in the warmest blanket and curl up around him and keep him safe and warm.

“How’re we gonna get him away from Hydra?” he asks, soft, after a few hours of humming a song he doesn’t remember knowing.

Natasha looks at him in the rear view mirror and says, “You’re assuming he wants to be taken away from them.”

“He does,” Clint says, entirely certain. “He doesn’t -- he isn’t who they think he is.”

“Who is he?”

“Not sure yet,” Clint says, and goes back to carefully drifting through the layers of the Winter Soldier’s mind, still humming that song that he’s found wrapped around the Soldier’s mind like gift wrap.

“It’s a Russian lullaby,” Natasha tells him softly. “They sang it at the Red Room.”

Clint stops humming.

*

They make it to the rendezvous. They exchange the Hydra info for immunity and get taken into SHIELD custody. Clint gets whisked off to medical, Natasha to interrogation.

The vetting process is long and thorough. They ask Clint about his family, his days in the circus, his involvement with various high profile assassins. They ask him about his soulmark and why it’s broken and bent. They ask him who his soulmate is and he just keeps saying he doesn’t know, over and over again.

He finally tells one of the agents -- Agent Rumlow -- who it is, and they finally let him rest.

That night, he wakes up screaming and it feels like an icepick bashes through his brain, tearing out the parts that belong to the Soldier and leaving that same echoing cold in its place.

In the morning, his soulmark is bright and black and broken again, like he’d never been activated, and the black marks are running like tears.

He becomes an Agent of SHIELD the next day.

*

Being a SHIELD agent is just like being an internationally-hunted assassin, except he has superiors to report to and they like to spin complicated tales meant to give their agents a feeling of moralistic superiority.

At the end of the day, he’s still killing on someone else’s command, and the pay is a whole lot less.

But sometimes he falls for the rhetoric and starts to think he’s making a difference. He’s changing things. He’s an important brick in the wall keeping the advancing tide of fascism at bay.

Other times, like today, laying on this rooftop in the pouring rain, waiting to make a shot, he thinks he’s just another pawn in someone else’s game, and he’s not going to live long enough to see the final play.

And that’s before he hears the distinctive cocking of a gun as it’s pressed to the back of his head.

Clint is good at his job. He’s the best shot at SHIELD, and he’s got pretty good situational awareness, for all that his hearing is fucked. He’s got some top-of-the-line hearing aids, and he should’ve heard anyone before they got close enough to pin him this way.

He didn’t, though, and he lets out the breath he’s holding. He waits for the bullet, doesn’t bother closing his eyes, because if a rainy street in the middle of fucking New Jersey is gonna be the last sight he ever gets to see, well. He’s gonna do his best to see it all.

And then, behind him, slow and confused and _angry_ about it, a voice says, “I know you.”

Clint’s eyes slam shut and he feels something break inside. “Yeah,” he whispers. “You know me.”

He feels the gun tremble, just the tiniest bit, and he takes his chance, rolling and swinging a fist upwards as he does, knocking the Winter Soldier’s arm so the gun swings wide.

He doesn’t shoot, just stares down at Clint like he’s seeing a ghost -- his face is pale and dripping wet and his eyes so dark.

Clint sweeps his leg, taking the Soldier’s out, and then tackles him, pinning him to the rooftop with one forearm braced against his throat, in case he intends to struggle.

He doesn’t. He just lays there, his body lax and his eyes wide, staring up at Clint and blinking away the rain.

They breathe together -- Clint feels that place in his mind, the place where the Soldier lives, blooming like a flower, filling up with light and wonder, and he hates it because he knows it isn’t going to last. It never lasts. It’ll be torn away like the other times and leave nothing but emptiness and scars in its place.

“What are you doing here?” Clint asks. He and Natasha have been looking for the Winter Soldier since they saw him last, but they’d found no trace of him.

“Waiting for extraction,” The Soldier says, licking the rain off his lips. His hair is long and dark and slicked back out of his face and Clint can see more of him than he has before. 

He’s pale and sharp and prettier than Clint thought he was, and he’s being strangely calm, but Clint still doesn’t trust him not to turn feral if he lets him up.

“Come away with me instead,” Clint says.

The Soldier just looks perplexed. “Where?” he asks.

Clint laughs and it sounds a little shaky, a little tearful. “Anywhere?”

“Can’t,” The Soldier says, voice going a little hazy. “My work is important. My orders are clear. Complete mission, wait for extraction.”

“I could give you new orders,” Clint tries.

“Who are you to give me orders?” He sounds intrigued, not angry, and Clint closes his eyes and breathes for a moment before sitting up.

He peels his wet shirt up so that his mark, already faded and activated but still clear enough to see the mess of it, is visible. “I’m yours,” he says. “You’re mine. We’ve met before and they keep taking you from me.”

The Soldier reaches forward with trembling, cold fingers, and touches the mark, and Clint knows he’s got to have an identical one on his body somewhere too. He’s got to recognize it.

“Mine,” The Soldier echoes, careful, like the word is delicate.

And Clint opens his mouth to say something -- to say anything -- when there is a crack of gunfire.

White hot pain explodes all along his side, mere inches from his mark, and the force of the bullet is enough to send him tumbling off the Soldier -- and straight over the side of the building. He hears a scream and it’s one he recognizes, one he knows, one he hears in his dreams whenever they tear his soulmate from his mind.

Clint is unconscious before he hits the ground, which is for the best, as he breaks so many bones on impact.

*

His injuries are so substantial, he’s put on extended leave. Natasha is temporarily reassigned during those months, a fact which infuriates her to no end as she is sent undercover with Tony Stark. She comes over every day to bitch about it, but always brings soup or pizza or groceries when she does, so he doesn’t mind.

Hell, he wouldn’t mind anyway, but the food is a good perk.

He’s at home, camped out on his sofa, cast around his healing left leg and bandages around his ribs, when he flicks to the news channel and sees the headlines -- War Hero Captain America found frozen, and still alive.

“Holy shit,” he breathes.

He spent his childhood hiding out in his bedroom with his brother Barney, pouring over comic books detailing the exploits of Captain America and the Howling Commandos. Captain America has always been this symbol of everything that’s supposed to be good about America -- and it was only as he grew up and lost his mom and then his dad and then his home and then anything at all resembling a childhood that he realized it was all bullshit. It was all lies. The America that Captain America stood for disappeared long before Clint was born.

Except there he is. Captain America. Standing in the middle of a Manhattan street, looking lost, in a shirt two sizes too small.

Clint crams a piece of cold pizza in his mouth, and reaches for his phone without looking away.

“Nat,” he says when she picks up. “Natasha. Did you see?”

“I did,” she says. “I’m being reassigned to assist.”

“You’re gonna miss Stark, admit it.”

“You better heal fast, Barton.”

The world is a strange place, Clint thinks, as she hangs up on him. He grabs another piece of cold pizza.

And the world just gets stranger.

*

The thing with Loki is a nightmare. A literal fucking nightmare. The cold, the blue, the feeling of something cutting through his brain with little regard for the damage it’s doing -- it feels the way it feels when The Winter Soldier is pulled from his mind, only this time, Clint isn’t insulated by distance. This time, the pain isn’t an echo of his soulmate’s pain.

It’s his pain. It’s him being stripped of his agency, of his ability to control his mind and his body. It’s him being torn from his own fucking brain, forced to watch as his body obeys commands that are not his, commits attrocities under Loki’s orders.

Clint doesn’t fight -- that’s the thing. He should be fighting. When HYDRA does whatever they do to the Winter Soldier’s mind, he fights it with everything he’s got, but the instant Loki’s scepter touches him, Clint just drifts away. Like he’s relieved. Like he’s tired. Like it’s finally time to rest.

He drifts on that lack of responsibility, watching his body, his hands, commit those acts, but nothing feels real or worth sticking around for. He’s aimless. Weightless.

And then, in the back of his mind, a soft whisper. “I know you…”

There is something he’s meant to say back but Clint has forgotten everything except this weightlessness, which he’s grateful for. It means he doesn’t have to care about the amount of blood on his hands.

But that voice in his mind, it grows agitated with his continued silence, saying again and again and again, “I know you, I know you, I know you,” as if repetition is going to make Clint give in and acknowledge it.

Instead, he just drifts.

*

The blow to the head is unexpected. It’s a sharp, red hot crack of pain that cuts through the icy nothingness with a spangled, bright burst of light. Something breaks in his face -- his cheekbone fractures and he falls, and his consciousness is dragged kicking and screaming out of the nothingness before he hits the ground.

He blinks up at the ceiling, stunned, with no idea where he is or why. His face is throbbing and something’s on fire, he can smell it. It stings at his nose and his throat. He’s somewhere industrial -- the ceiling is made up of pipes, exposed beams, and shadows.

Before he can sit up, someone is on him, pinning him down and grabbing his shirt with two fists, lifting him and slamming him into the ground again. 

He groans at the pain and then, above him, The Winter Soldier snarls, “_I know you_.”

He’s still slamming Clint into the metal catwalk beneath him, but Clint answers automatically. “Yeah, you know me,” he says, and the slamming stops abruptly.

When he looks up, the Winter Soldier looks feral, broken. His face is bruised and bloody, his hair a mess, his eyes wide and bright blue.

“Am I your mission this time?” Clint asks, words blurring together. “Are you going to kill me?”

“I already did,” The Winter Soldier says, grating and broken and somehow soft.

There are footsteps coming down the catwalk, and Clint knows Natasha’s steps like he knows his own. He reaches up, twists his fist in the Winter Soldier’s shirt and says, “Stay. Stay, Don’t go. Don’t--”

“Stay alive,” the Soldier snaps, and then he’s gone before Natasha gets there.

*

Recovering from Loki is different than recovering from being shot and falling off a roof, and harder too. He gets sent to mandated therapy, which is fair though not spectacularly helpful, because there’s not much a therapist can do to convince him that what he’s feeling -- the guilt, the despair, the confusion -- is normal. Getting possessed by an alien god and forced to kill his friends isn’t a shared experience that a therapist might have.

The nightmares are nearly constant, for a while. He wakes himself up screaming more times than he can count, hyperventilating and tearing at his own skin, and it’s only the soft voice in his head, humming that same Russian lullaby, that calms him.

But weeks turn to months and slowly, he finds his footing again.

And if the nightmares never quite stop, no one has to know except the Soldier, who shares his mind.

He keeps waiting for that same feeling, that same cold, that same careless bashing away at the place in his mind where he keeps his soulmate, but it doesn’t come, not for months.

And when it finally does, Clint isn’t expecting it. He hasn’t had a Loki nightmare in weeks, but after he wakes up with the Soldier’s screams in his mind, he has them every night for a month.

Eventually, he does his best to stop sleeping at all, sitting away in the dark and hugging his knees to his chest and whispering, “I know you, I know you, I know you,” outloud, but there’s never any answer.

*

Natasha exposes all of SHIELD’s secrets and that includes most of Clint’s, which is unfortunate. A heads up would have been nice.

He’s on a solo mission in Ohio when it happens, and it fucks up his cover, so he takes off in the middle of the night in a stolen piece of shit car, heading for D.C., hoping to catch up with Cap or Nat or anyone who can tell him what the fuck is going on.

He’s in one of the cars on the bridge when everything goes to hell.

At first, Clint stays out of the way. There is gunfire and there are HYDRA operatives and there are civilians in the line of fire and he doesn’t know what the fuck is going on but he figures Cap would appreciate it if he got the civilians out of the way, so he busies himself with that, prying mangled cars open and pulling commuters out, telling them to run.

He’s just about secured a perimeter when he hears an explosion -- a rocket launcher? And looks up. There has been a pretty steady stream of machine gun fire, and the rocket launcher is unexpected, and--

And the Winter Soldier is standing in the middle of the chaos, flames rising up out of the wreckage of an armoured vehicle behind him, Steve running right at him.

They are going to kill each other.

Clint is up and running towards them without even thinking about it.

The fight is brutal. The Soldier takes Steve’s hits the way no one else ever has, holding his own too easily, putting Steve on the defensive. They’re swinging at each other with fists, slashing with knives, Steve’s trying his best to use his shield but it almost seems like the Soldier can anticipate how he does it, can use it too. It makes no sense and Clint doesn’t know how to make it stop.

Clint can’t figure out what would be worse, watching his soulmate kill Captain America, or watching Steve Rogers kill his soulmate.

“Clint,” Natasha says, reedy and weak, when he gets close enough to the fight to slow, to try to figure out how to stop them. He turns his head and sees her huddled against an abandoned car, clutching her side, bleeding heavily. “You can’t -- you can’t get in the middle of that.”

Clint falls to his knees beside her, pulling her hand away. “I have to,” he says, desperate, trying to see the extent of her wound. “I can’t let either of them die.”

“You’ll die,” she says. “If you interfere, you’ll die.”

She’s right. He knows she’s right. If he had his bow, maybe he’d have a chance, but he doesn’t. He’s capable at hand-to-hand, but not capable enough to take on the Winter Soldier and Captain America.

“Hold this here,” he says, pressing a ragged piece of his shirt against her wound.

“Don’t,” she pants. “Clint.”

“I have to try.”

He gets up, moving carefully around the car, into the street. If he can just call out, get the Soldier’s attention long enough for Steve to disarm him, maybe they can take him to SHIELD and get this sorted out.

He just needs to distract him.

And then Steve sends the Soldier flying with a particularly vicious blow, knocking the mask from his face. It helps keep Clint focused, seeing that familiar jawline, the familiar scowl on his face, and he’s going to call out, he’s going to --

“Bucky?” Steve says, stunned.

Clint looks at him, feeling the ground shift beneath his feet. “What?” he breathes, because he knows who Bucky is, of course he knows. Everyone who grew up on the legend of Captain America and the Howling Commandos knows about Bucky Barnes.

“Who the hell is Bucky?” the Soldier asks, stalking towards Steve, and Clint doesn’t know if Steve’s got enough situational awareness to even defend himself right now. He looks like he’s going to cry.

And then the Soldier -- Bucky -- sees Clint standing there and his step falters. He stops, standing in the middle of the road with his metal hand clenching rhythmically, his breathing choppy. He’s staring at Clint and Clint lifts both hands, stepping closer.

“I know you,” Bucky says, slow and uncertain.

“Yeah,” Clint says, laughing a little tearfully. “You know me. Bucky.”

“Clint,” Steve says, sounding rough. “What’s going on?”

“It’s going to be okay,” Clint says, soothing, ignoring Steve. “I know you’re confused, but I can help you. Steve-- Steve and I can help you.”

Bucky’s eyes flash from Clint to Steve and he growls, “I don’t know him.”

“You do,” Clint says. “I don’t know what they did to you, but you know him, more than you know me.”

Bucky looks back at him, shaking his head like he’s trying to clear it. “Clint.”

“Yeah. That’s me. Let me just --”

He reaches out to touch, fingers just inches from Bucky’s shoulder, when there’s an explosion in one of the mangled cars on the bridge, and Bucky startles, shoving violently at Clint, pushing him out of the way of flying shrapnel. Clint staggers, and when he catches his balance, Bucky is already running towards the side of the bridge.

“No,” Clint shouts. “Wait, just -- just wait!”

Bucky doesn’t slow, just leaps over the railing and disappears.

“Clint,” Steve says, still stunned. “What -- what’s happening? He didn’t know me -- he didn’t know me at all.”

Clint hangs over the guardrail, searching the water below, but he can’t see any sign of Bucky.  
*

So Fury was dead and no one thought to tell Clint, who is less shocked than everyone else when it turns out that Fury isn’t actually dead at all.

And SHIELD is infiltrated by HYDRA.

And all anybody seems to want to talk about, in the underground bunker where Hill takes them after the shit show on the bridge, is why Clint and Natasha never saw fit to tell anybody that Clint’s soulmate was the Winter Soldier.

“But I did tell someone,” Clint argues. “During my interrogation when we first joined SHIELD.”

“Who’d you tell?” Steve asks.

“Rumlow.”

There is a grim silence. 

*

HYDRA cuts Clint out of Bucky’s mind with a brutal and vicious efficiency soon after. It’s so sudden and so sharp that Clint doesn’t have a hope in hell of finding somewhere silent to scream as it happens. One minute, he’s helping Steve inventory their weapon stash in the bunker, pretending he doesn’t know that Steve’s using it as a ploy to gently interrogate him for all the information about Bucky Barnes he can get.

The next minute, he’s on his knees, screaming and crying and begging them to stop, please, stop.

Bucky can’t beg so Clint does it for him.

Steve’s right there next to him, but Clint doesn’t have the energy to focus on him, to reassure him, to explain. He just screams and clutches at his head and begs and eventually, Steve stops demanding answers and just holds on tight.

Clint imagines he’s wishing he was holding onto Bucky, but so is Clint, so that makes them even.

“I got you,” Steve says, quiet, when Clint’s screaming dies down to something quieter and more painful. His mind is echoing and empty again and Bucky’s gone. “You’re okay.”

“Lost him,” he mumbles, and Steve laughs, a little shaky.

“I figured,” he says. “We’ll get him back.”

He sounds the kind of confident that Captain America is known for, and Clint closes his eyes and, for the first time since he was 24, starts to believe that maybe they will.

*

They’ve got a half-baked plan to hack into each of HYDRA’s helicarriers and remotely take over the targeting software to blow them out of the air.

It’s such a fucking stupid idea.

Clint had suggested they just let him go after them with his arrows, same as he took out that one before for Loki, but they hadn’t liked his simple idea and he tells himself it’s not because they don’t trust him -- after all, the Loki thing is hardly a shining piece of his combat history, and they’re all expecting his soulmate to show up, and no one’s quite sure how Clint is going to handle it.

He knows he’s not going to shoot Bucky, and Steve seems grateful to have someone on his side for that.

But he’s not 100 percent sure that Bucky’s not gonna shoot him. 

He’s pretty sure he can convince Bucky not to shoot him anywhere vital, which is an optimistic thought.

So Clint, Steve and his new friend Sam, who can apparently fly, are going to hit up the helicarriers while Hill handles the remote targeting, and Fury’s going to fly the helicopter and --

And it is the most hamfisted, half-baked plan Clint has ever heard of.

But whatever. When Captain America tells you to do something, you do it, and besides. Bucky’ll be there.

“If you don’t come back, I’m gonna kill you,” Natasha says from the bed where she’s still recovering from where Clint’s soulmate shot her. She shot him first though.

It’s a complicated situation.

He smiles at her and says, “If I don’t come back, I’d expect nothing less.”

“And bring your boy back,” she says, closing her eyes. She’s pale and weaker than she’d normally let anybody see. “I’m tired of you moping about it.”

“Yes, sir,” he says, soft, and stays with her until she falls asleep.

*

It’s as much of a shit show as Clint knew it would be. The good news is that his grappling hook arrow got him from Fury’s helicopter to the third helicarrier perfectly -- much better than Sam’s ridiculous mechanical wings, which get torn off within ten minutes.

“Status report,” Hill demands, as Clint makes his way through the helicarrier.

“No hostiles yet,” Clint says, ducking up a flight of stairs, bow at the ready. “On my way to target.”

Steve takes a little while longer to reply, and when he does, he sounds out of breath. “Bucky’s here,” he says. “I haven’t planted the drive yet.”

Clint stumbles and catches his footing, but he’s distracted. He’d hoped that wherever Bucky ended up appearing, he’d be there, hopefully before too much damage was done.

“Hawkeye,” Hill snaps. “Focus. I need you to plant your drive and make it to the other helicarrier. Then you can worry about The Winter Soldier.”

“I’m pretty sure I can worry about saving the world and Bucky at the same time,” Clint says, though he does force himself to move more quickly towards the harddrive. “I’m a multitasker like that.”

She doesn’t bother to reply.

Planting the first drive is easy. The helicarrier’s entire purpose is to be an unmanned, basically automatic machine programmed to take out threats to Hydra, and part of the deal seems to be leaving them undefended and hoping whatever algorithm they’re using takes anyone out before they get on board to destroy them.

Which means he and Steve are probably going to be the first targets eliminated if these things manage to come online.

He plants the drive and says, “Target one, neutralized. Heading over to finish Sam’s job.”

“Fuck you,” Sam grunts. “Little busy keeping HYDRA off your ass.”

Clint laughs as he runs for the window, shooting a sonic arrow at it as he does. It sends a network of spiderweb cracks through the glass so that it crumbles when he kicks it, and he can see his next target hovering nearby.

“Hawkeye,” Hill snaps again. “Focus. Captain, report.”

“I’m, uhh, working on it,” Steve pants. He sounds like he’s in a whole world of pain. “Haven’t reached the target yet.”

“You’ve got seven minutes,” she tells him, terse.

Clint fires a grappling arrow at the next helicarrier and swings over.

He plants that drive with three minutes to spare, and then stands at the window, staring across the Potomac where Steve’s helicarrier is hovering. “Target two, neutralized,” he says. “Cap, you need help?”

“No,” Steve says. “I need -- shit -- I just need to knock him out and --”

“Captain,” Hill says, stern. “Millions will die if you don’t plant that drive. I need you to deal with the Soldier with whatever means necessary to get that key into the harddrive. Do you understand? This is bigger than just one man.”

Steve doesn’t reply, and the very idea that he might be considering lethal force, considering killing Bucky to clear the way to the harddrive, has Clint struggling to breathe. He can’t lose Bucky now, not after coming this close. Not after having lost him so many times before.

“One minute,” Hill says, quiet.

Steve is silent. And Clint can’t just stand here and watch this happen. 

He grabs another sonic arrow, using it to weaken the reinforced glass, and then slams his foot through it while nocking another grappling arrow. He aims for the helicarrier’s hull and the arrow slams through the metal, latching tightly.

“Twenty seconds,” Hill says.

Clint jumps, swinging through the air, desperate -- he doesn’t make it.

The countdown runs out and seconds before it does, Steve must slam the new code into the harddrive, because all the guns shift to point at each other. Clint’s got three seconds to brace himself, still hurtling through the air, before the helicarriers open fire on each other.

It sounds like an eruption -- violent and traumatic, each helicarrier enveloped in a cloud of noxious smoke as their engines blow huge pillars of flame up to the sky. It’s so loud, Clint’s ears ring and start to bleed even as his arrow comes loose and he begins to tumble towards the river below, falling in a rainshower of broken, twisted pieces of metal and glass.

Nearby, he sees Steve and Bucky falling too.

Clint hits the water hard enough to tear his shoulder out of joint, something in his chest shattering, and he opens his mouth to scream and all he can taste is his own blood, washed away by river water.

Moving hurts. Breathing hurts. His ribs feel crushed. But Clint isn’t going to die like this, drowning while surrounded by broken pieces of helicarrier. Not when Bucky is so close and might need him.

He kicks his way to the surface and can’t see anything through the haze of smoke that hangs thick in the air. He struggles to shore, dragging himself onto the bank with his good hand, his other one cradled against his broken ribs. His head is bleeding and he’s got a long gash in his side but he manages to roll over onto his back, blinking up at the sky, trying to sit up.

Everything hurts but he needs to find Bucky. He needs --

Rumlow finds him instead, pinning him to the ground with one combat boot pressed to his sternum. Clint can feel his ribs twisting, cracking, under the pressure. All the air is forced from his lungs in a rush, a pained whine, and he hasn’t got the strength to fight him off, though he tries his best.

He’s pinned like a butterfly as Rumlow cocks a pistol and points it at his forehead and sneers.

“You don’t know what you’ve done,” he says. “You don’t know what you’ve ruined. Insight was going to change the world, make it better -- safer. And you and goddamn Captain America have fucked it up.”

Clint gasps, sucking in a sharp, ragged breath, and thinks about how angry Natasha is going to be when she finds out that this is how he died -- pinned like a fucking butterfly and executed after having to listen to Rumlow’s villain monologue.

“Fuck you,” he pants, and Rumlow grinds his boot down against Clint’s broken ribs. He screams, a high, sharp sound, and Rumlow laughs.

“I’m going to enjoy this,” he says. “I’m going to -- Asset. What are you -- did you _kill_ him?”

Clint manages to turn his head and he feels something shatter in his chest when he sees Bucky standing there, bloodied and injured and holding Steve’s body by the strap of his harness, both of them wet from the river.

Clint can’t tell if Steve is breathing but he hopes to god he is, because Bucky can’t lose his soulmate and his best friend at the same time. There’ll be no bringing him back from whatever HYDRA has done to him if that happens, and Clint has no illusions here. His body is broken and weak and he doesn’t stand a chance of getting away.

Bucky drops Steve and Clint hears him cough weakly. He’s alive, and Clint just needs to distract Rumlow long enough for Steve to wake up and get away, and then maybe Bucky doesn’t have to lose everything.

He shoves at Rumlow, knocking him off balance, and manages to force himself upright, though his ribs twist and grind in his chest, the wound on his side tears open even more with a rush of blood. Clint grabs for the knife in Rumlow’s boot as Rumlow fires his gun wildly.

The bullet doesn’t hit him in the head, thank fuck, but Clint can’t help a ragged, desperate sound, the world fading to gray, as it slams into his thigh. 

He lashes out with the knife, catching Rumlow in the shin, but the wound is shallow and barely causes any damage at all. Rumlow kicks the knife out of Clint’s hand with a sneer.

“You think you have a chance?” he says, kicking him in the chest, sending him back to the ground with a crack as his ribs give out even more. “Oh, I _forgot_. He’s your soulmate, isn’t he? That’s what you said, right before we ripped you out of his head again? We always knew when he’d run into you -- he’d come back raving and crying, begging for you, saying he _knew_ you. It was your fault we had to break him again and again. At least with you dead, we won’t have to waste any more time breaking him -- he’ll already be broken, and --

Clint doesn’t see the gunshot coming and neither does Rumlow, looking nearly comically surprised as the bullet tears through his forehead, leaving a neat little hole and a slow, careful drip of blood. He falls backwards moments later, collapsing to the ground, and Clint -- and Clint can’t fucking breathe. He’s pretty sure his lung is punctured, but he needs to get up, he needs to get to Bucky, to keep Bucky from running again --

But when he manages to get to his knees, trembling and bleeding and pressing a hand to the ragged tear in his side, the gunshot wound in his thigh bleeding sluggishly, he turns to find Bucky standing there, Steve unconscious at his feet. He’s holding the gun he used to shoot Rumlow in one hand, his grip loose almost as if he’s forgotten all about it.

He’s staring at Clint and looking hunted.

Clint gets to his feet, manages one staggering step towards him, reaching with one bloodied hand, but then he tries to move the leg with the bullet wound, and it just gives out and he starts to collapse.

Bucky catches him before he hits the ground, falling into a crouch as he holds Clint up on his knees.

“I --” Bucky whispers, voice hoarse. “I know you.”

Clint clings to his shoulder and pants. “Yeah,” he says, weak, his eyes sliding shut. “You know me.”

He feels Bucky’s hand -- shaking and tentative and careful -- tracing the soulmark on his side, the one bisected by the torn and bloody gash from falling pieces of the helicarrier. 

Just before he loses consciousness and starts to slip to the side, Clint hears Bucky say, quiet, “I got you. It’s okay. Clint. I got you. I -- I know you.”

And then everything goes dark and slips away and so does Clint.

*

Clint’s used to waking up in hospital rooms, but this one is different. It’s darker than he’s used to, for one, with no natural light and the distinct scent of dampness that it takes him a moment to identify -- he’s in that bunker, the one Fury miraculously proved himself to not actually be dead at. Great.

He supposes it makes sense -- the Triskelion can’t have survived the whole helicarrier thing… And if Hydra really did infiltrate SHIELD as fully as he suspects they did, then he’s probably being hidden away for his own protection or whatever.

A suite in Tony’s tower would have been preferable, but at least he’s alive. And breathing. Barely breathing. But breathing nonetheless.

His ribs are swathed in thick bandages, he can feel the stinging tightness on his side and his thigh that indicates stitches and reluctant, mortal levels of healing. He wishes, not for the first time, that he had the super serum, because he bets Steve’s already up and going for his morning runs again.

But that’s not the most irritating thing at the moment, not the thing that makes his heart sink and his mood sour.

Bucky’s not here.

Sure, Clint ought to be used to activating with his soul mate only to lose him minutes later -- it’s kinda their thing. But he’d hoped this time, that Bucky would have stuck around, if only to make sure Clint didn’t die.

Now he’s gonna have to launch an international manhunt for him, and that’s going to take more energy than Clint thinks he’s got. Steve’ll probably help, though.

He closes his eyes, shifts against the discomfort and pain in his ribs, and wonders if SHIELD falling apart means no one’s funding the good drugs anymore. And then he pokes at the place in his mind where he can still feel Bucky, a buzzing sensation of adrenaline and anxiety that’s just familiar enough to be soothing.

At least Hydra hasn’t got him, or if they do, they haven’t done whatever they do to tear Clint out of his mind yet.

The door opens with a creak of metal hinges and Clint opens his eyes to find Natasha, pale and furious with her arms crossed over her chest.

“I told you to be careful,” she tells him.

“I’m pretty sure if I wasn’t at least a little careful, I’d never have made it back, so you’re welcome?” he tries. “I tried my best, Nat.”

She rolls her eyes. “Your best means not getting torn open by a falling helicarrier, or shot, or your ribs crushed. Idiot. How are you feeling?”

“Like we lost our budget for the good drugs,” he tells her, tired. “Do you know where he went?”

She arches an eyebrow. “If you mean Steve, he’s recovering down the hall. Sam’s fine, if a little bruised. Fury’s doing damage control but mostly unharmed. Rumlow’s dead.”

“Bucky--”

She softens a little. “Clint,” she says. “He nearly beat Steve to death.”

“It wasn’t him -- you know it wasn’t him, it was Hydra. I’m going to find him, Nat, we’re going to save him, he’s not what Hydra turned him into. Okay? And if you won’t help me, I’m pretty sure Steve’ll help me, and when we get him back, I’ll prove it, I’ll show you, he--”

“He’s in a containment cell downstairs,” she tells him. “We couldn’t be sure the programming wouldn’t come back.”

“You _locked him up_?” he cries, but he’s distracted with the growing realization that Bucky didn’t leave him, not this time. “I need to see him.”

“Not until we assess whether he’s a danger,” Natasha tells him. “And not until you can breathe without whining for drugs.”

He scoffs. “I’m fine. I’ve had a broken rib before, Nat.”

“Six broken ribs,” she tells him. “One punctured lung. One significant contusion that caused bruising to your spleen. And a gunshot wound to the thigh. You’re staying here until I can trust that you’re not going to tear open your stitches.”

She turns to go, pausing in the doorway and adding, “But I’ll see what I can do about stronger drugs.”

“You’re a lifesaver,” he tells her, because he knows she worried about him.

He waits until she’s been gone three minutes before he throws the blankets back and sits up, slow and careful and fucking painfully..

Everything hurts -- his vision starts to fade out from the sharp pain that only grows worse now that he’s sitting up.

Maybe Natasha was right. Maybe he needs to rest. Maybe he’s going to damage himself this way.

But fuck it. Bucky is there and Clint needs to see him.

The good thing about rotten out old bunkers is that they still need to be ventilated, and Clint is an expert at getting where he needs to get through the vents.

Sure, crawling through them when he can barely move without significant, searing pain is going to be difficult, but he’s sure it’s manageable. He’s always been told that he’s got a frankly concerning tolerance for pain.

He swings his feet over the side of the bed and leverages himself up, taking half a tentative step --

And then his legs give out.

He tries to catch himself on a train that someone left near his bed and it falls to the ground with him, landing with a sharp crash that does a marvelous job of hiding his pained cry.

He expects the doors to fly open, for Natasha to find him and tear him a new one for being such an idiot.

What he doesn’t expect is for the ventilation shaft cover to fly from the wall with such violent force, that it crashes into the opposite wall before landing on the floor.

Clint’s trying his best to push himself to his feet -- or at least onto his knees, for fuck’s sake -- in case it’s some sort of attack or invasion, and he can’t quite manage it. It’s lucky, then, that it’s Bucky who slips from the vents and lands on the floor lightly, like a cat, and that Bucky looks like Bucky, and not like the Winter Soldier.

“Hey,” Clint says, blank. “Vents are my thing.”

“You fucking idiot,” Bucky says, once he’s done a quick scan of the room, taken in the empty bed, the closed door, the lack of threats, and Clint sprawled on the floor, slowly bleeding through his bandages.

Clint tries for a charming grin. “I know you,” he says.

“You’re going to get yourself killed.”

“Not -- Not today,” Clint says, sucking in a sharp breath as he tries to sit up. “I missed you.”

“They -- they wouldn’t let me see you but they said you were healing,” Bucky tells him, doing another sweep of the room before approaching Clint. He looks tense, agitated, but he’s Bucky and not the Soldier and Clint’ll take him any way he can get him.

“I was,” Clint says. “I’m all better.”

It’s possible he’s bleeding out. Whatever.

“Idiot,” Bucky says again. “I -- I felt you wake.”

“Oh, man,” Clint says, a little hazy. Bucky gathers him up, metal hand against his shoulders, other arm tucked under his knees, lifting him carefully, gently. “They’re gonna freak when they realized you got out.”

“Shoulda let me see you,” Bucky says, quiet, as he tucks Clint back into bed. “You need to rest. Probably new stitches. Idiot.”

He steps back, probably to go for a doctor, maybe to disappear back into the vents and into the night, and Clint panics, scrambling for his hand and holding it tight once he catches it. It’s Bucky’s metal hand, but Clint doesn’t care.

“Bucky,” he says. “Stay.”

Bucky hesitates, and then smoothes Clint’s hair back out of his eyes and says, “I’m going to get a doctor. I’m not -- I won’t go far. I won’t let them take me again.”

Clint still doesn’t let go of his hand, fighting to keep his eyes open, though unconsciousness is looking better and better. “Where’s -- where’s your mark?” he asks.

Bucky’s quiet for a long moment, and then he carefully says, “My wrist. The left one.”

Clint closes his eyes, letting his head fall against the pillow, thinking about everything Hydra took from Bucky and he wants to kill them all over again.

“They took everything,” he says, faintly. “But not this. Not again. They won’t take me from you. Stay with me.”

Clint’s not sure -- he’s half delusional with pain and exhaustion, and reality is slipping away inch by inch -- but he thinks he feels Bucky press a soft kiss to his forehead and then, maybe, to his mouth.

“Sleep,” Bucky says, quiet. “I’ll be here when you wake.”

Clint tightens his hold on Bucky’s hand and knows that it’s true -- it’s finally true. Maybe Hydra took everything else, but they’ve tried and they’ve tried to take this and it never stuck.

And if they try again, Clint thinks, as he slips away still holding Bucky’s hand, then Clint’ll tear them apart, one by one.

Because even when he didn’t know himself, Bucky knew Clint, and that’s all that ever mattered.

The End.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[FANART] blame it on bad luck](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20100151) by [pietray](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pietray/pseuds/pietray)
  * [Novel Recognition](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24877828) by [FadedSepia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FadedSepia/pseuds/FadedSepia)


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